


In Good Company

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Conversations, Drinking, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Robots, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Requited Love, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE, set shortly after issue #5: following the near-catastrophe at Delphi, both Drift and Ratchet realize they need to talk. And drink. And maybe do other things, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, homosindisguise! :B
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

"Look at you! Out of the medibay, for a change."

"Mm. A rare occurrence, Drift." Ratchet knocked back the rest of his drink, then said flatly, "Perhaps you should purchase a lottery ticket."

Drift laughed as he settled into the seat opposite Ratchet. "I'm not even sure I know what that means, but I think I get the idea." They were in a quiet corner, but the rest of Swerve's bar was buzzing. Most of the activity was centered around a large table where Rodimus himself was hosting some sort of Earth game, and from the looks of it, the premise involved executing crudely-drawn pictures and attempting to guess what said drawings depicted. Ratchet obviously wasn't interested, and though Drift might have had a passing curiosity, the sight of the lone medic was far more enticing. The third-in-command took a slow sip of his drink, then asked, "What brings you out into the _public eye?_ "

Ratchet's first response was to signal to Swerve for another drink. Then, "I now have help and therefore some semblance of free time. We brought back more than just a _new pair of hands_ from Delphi, you know."

"Oh, First Aid and Ambulon. Of course."

"Yes, the medics who saved your life on Messatine," Ratchet said dryly. "They've proven to be quite the asset to what had previously been a _severely-understaffed_ medibay." The server droid arrived at their table, a tankard of bright-orange engex balanced precariously on its tray. Ratchet seized his drink, took a long gulp, then grumbled, "And why do you care, kid? Go play _Pictionary_ with Rodimus, or whatever it is he's doing."

Drift felt his mouth curl into a coy smile. "Why should I? I see him more than enough. Who I _don't_ see enough, though, is you."

"Well, _until now_ , I've been incredibly busy." Ratchet glanced to his hands, briefly, then said, "Peacetime, as it turns out, brings just as many patients to my door as wartime. Who'd have thought."

For a while, Drift didn't reply. He took a deeper sip of his drink, optics locked on the chief medical officer. "Do you regret coming along? On the quest, I mean."

"Not yet."

Drift nodded. Their time together on Messatine had been the longest either had spent in the other's presence; before the slag hit the fan at Delphi, it had been a trying exercise, filled with the trading of barbs and acidic sarcasm. And then the slag _did_ hit the fan, and from there it had turned into a bonding experience in what Drift had been _sure_ would be the end, and now —

Well, here they were, in one another's company, completely by choice. Drift hoped so, anyway. Ratchet hadn't yet left. That was a good sign.

" _I'm_ glad you came along," Drift offered at last.

"The crew would've been out of luck had I not."

"That isn't exactly what I meant," the third-in-command said, his voice a bit quieter. "More than just for your — your skills. Your expertise. In the medibay." Why was he tripping over his words _now,_ of all times? Drift stared at his half-empty glass. No, it wasn't the engex. He coughed static, then tried again, "I mean — and your companionship. It's nice getting to know you better."

Ratchet rolled his optics and took another drink. "Well, for what it's worth, kid, these days I find you a lot more tolerable, too."

Coming from the chief medical officer, that was a compliment. Drift smirked into his glass, feeling a very brief heat flash over his face. An almost-but-not-quite-comfortable silence stretched between them; Drift coughed again, then said, "So — so speaking of First Aid and Ambulon. Have they been meshing with the rest of the crew?"

"They've been busy," Ratchet said, "but yes, they seem to be fitting in well enough."

"Ambulon too, though? You know, as a former Decepticon. It's a hard stigma to escape. Is he being treated alright?"

"I haven't seen anyone refuse his care yet." Ratchet took another drink. "Do _you_ still get slag for it?"

"Other than from you?" It was a challenging smirk.

"When I insult you, I say it with good intentions," the medic countered. "There's a difference."

"Do you, now?" Drift raised his glass in a mockery of a toast, smirk filling out into a grin. "Fair enough, then. I'll wear it like a badge."

* * *

It wasn't long after that Drift received a summons to the medibay. The memo made him nervous, but it also excited Drift in a way that he couldn't quite articulate. After discreetly excusing himself from the bridge of the _Lost Light_ , the third-in-command began his trek down to the medical wing, making small talk with the crewmates he happened to pass along the way. It wasn't so far a trip — not from command nor from his quarters — but the medibay wasn't a typical destination for Drift. He strayed there, on occasion, although he couldn't remember the last time he'd subjected himself to an exam.

If that's even what this was. Drift really hadn't a clue of why else Ratchet would summon him, but —

— _nah_. He'd bailed on his last scheduled check-up, though Drift had long forgotten why. Pressing matters from Rodimus or Ultra Magnus, most likely. Such things had the tendency to happen. Ratchet, obviously, had _not_ forgotten.

The third-in-command came to a halt outside the frosted glass of the medibay's shut doors. He considered keying in an entry request, then took a step back when the entrance opened in front of him, doors parting to reveal the scowling visage of Ratchet — and that caused Drift to back up considerably more. But as quick as ever, Drift saved face, exchanging his startled expression for a smile. "Well hello, doctor."

"Get in here." No _hello_ , no _good day_ — typical. And Drift didn't argue. Ratchet turned on his heel, and the third-in-command followed him into the medibay. It was bright and white and clean, full of sterile smells and the whirr and beeps of buzzing equipment. Ambulon hovered nearby, scrolling through a datapad and looking entirely absorbed by its contents; First Aid greeted Drift, then turned back to whoever it was he'd been running diagnostics upon.

Further into the medibay they went, until Ratchet arrived at the door to his office and beckoned Drift to follow him inside. Again, Drift didn't object — but he did wonder what the hell this was all about. It wasn't a routine check-up, that much was certain, and as the door shut behind him, it made the third-in-command slightly wary. Still, Drift settled into a chair; Ratchet, for his part, remained standing, optics narrowed, face unreadable.

"So," Drift offered, "you called?"

"Indeed." The chief medical officer stared at Drift a moment longer, then finally took a seat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chestplate. "I want to talk."

"In the secrecy of your office?" Drift asked, unable to keep the smile from his voice. "Sounds _important_."

"Yes, in the _secrecy of my office_." Ratchet spared a quick glance at his still-blue hands; he'd developed a habit of doing that, Drift had noticed. He wondered if _Ratchet_ noticed. "And it _is_ important. I want to talk about Delphi."

Oh. Of course. Well, this would be interesting. Ever since their return from Messatine, Ratchet had been tight-lipped about Pharma and the rust plague the mad doctor had engineered, not to mention the near-death experience they'd all shared. Just with the mere _mention_ of Delphi, Drift felt a weird shiver snake through his frame. It had been a memorably nasty day, one that, as a whole, he wished he could purge from his brain. And as a result, _because_ it was such an unpleasant experience, Drift hadn't thought much about Delphi, either — but the taste of his own rusted fluids burning through the back of his throat was one he'd never forget, nor would he forget the horrible sensation of his armor as it disintegrated and corroded and fell away. Drift's smile faltered, replaced by a measured, serious line. "Alright, then. Delphi. Talk to me."

"Ah. This isn't just me talking _at_ you, kid. We've got some things to talk _about_." Ratchet stood again, new hands now clasped behind his back. "I'm still recovering from it all. I've got — well, I've got a lot of _feelings_ about what happened back there, at Delphi."

Drift just barely caught himself from spouting off something about auras and the importance of cleansing negative thought processes — something he knew would do very little to remedy the matters at hand. His mouth snapped shut, an awkward moment passed, and then he ventured, carefully, "Pharma?"

"Yeah, him, but —"

"Can't say I'm sorry for what I did to him."

"I'm not asking you to apologize," the medic countered. "In fact, thank you. Again. You saved all of us, and I'm still not sure how the hell you managed to get up on the roof."

"Neither am I," Drift admitted. "It just — happened."

"Hm." More silence. Ratchet took a seat again, this time at the chair behind his desk. He steepled his fingers, optics not leaving Drift, face an inscrutable mask. "I take it you read the report I submitted to Rodimus — about Pharma's dealings with the D.J.D. and the _purpose_ of the plague he created."

"Uh-huh," Drift said with a nod. Yes, he'd read that report at length, several times, and even in an official account to their captain, the text hadn't lost Ratchet's usual acerbic tone.

"Good, then I don't need to repeat myself. In fact, let's not talk about Pharma — because this meeting isn't so much about him as it is _you_." 

"Oh."

" _Oh_ is right," Ratchet said, his voice now mild, although if he was amused, he sure didn't look it. "For starters, _never_ ask me to kill you again. It won't happen."

Drift rolled his optics. "Oh, give me a _little_ credit — we were in a pretty cruddy situation right about then and I _thought_ —"

"I don't care what you thought. It was completely ridiculous and —" Ratchet paused, words trailing off, steely gaze finally leaving the third-in-command.

Drift waited a beat. "Yes? And?"

The medic sighed. "— and it was a decision that I really — really couldn't make. And still couldn't make if you were to ask me again, no matter the situation. So don't — just, never again. _Please_."

Drift chewed on those words for a while, trying to make sense of them in the silence of Ratchet's office. If he wasn't mistaken, they carried heavy implications, and that made Drift's spark skip a pulse or two. He shifted in his chair, crossing an ankle over a thigh, then said, "I think — are you trying to say that you care about me? Am I correct in that assumption?"

"Yeah," Ratchet said hoarsely, "but don't let it go to your head."

* * *

The next time Drift found himself at Swerve's drinking establishment, the place was uncharacteristically empty, save for the regulars: Trailbreaker, sulkily nursing a stein of some potent-looking brew — Skids, keeping a careful optic on the serving droid — and, of course, Swerve himself, cleaning glasses while trying to engage Skids in conversation. Drift sidled up to the bar, catching Swerve's attention with a slight wave of his hand. "Just the usual. Why's the place so dead?"

"Movie night, apparently," Swerve replied with his customary wide grin. "Somehow, someone got their hands on a bunch of _Earth_ films. Not sure which ones, but I'm willing to bet a shipload of shanix they were lifted from _Magnus'_ habsuite." The bartender set a warm glass of bright-pink engex on the counter, then added, "I almost regret not joining them! I wonder what ol' Mags likes to watch, eh?"

"Not to criticize Ultra Magnus' taste in entertainment, Swerve, nor your attention span, but I think you'd probably find yourself less than engaged." Thanking the minibot, Drift accepted his drink, then sought a spot in the shadows — the same table where he'd spoken with Ratchet, not so long ago. For a while, Drift sat in silence, hands grasping his drink, the warmth from the glass spreading throughout his digits.

The minutes passed; crewmates trickled in and out of the bar, some chatting loudly, others, like Drift, attempting to find a bit of solitude. After the rough launch and the Sparkeater incident — not to mention the near-disaster on Delphi — Drift often questioned the general morale of those onboard the _Lost Light_ — and Swerve's bar was a good place to observe it, firsthand.

And, overall, people seemed — well, almost content. Drift could handle that.

He just wasn't sure if _he_ was content. Deep down in his spark, he knew he wasn't — but Drift wasn't about to admit that, not even to himself.

The third-in-command took a slow sip of his drink, then returned both hands to his glass. He basked in its warmth; it was familiar and comforting, and he remembered when he was dying on a medical slab at Delphi, his frame corroding and collapsing, and the warm hands of a certain medic were clasped tightly around his own —

"You looking for company, or are you here to get lost in your thoughts?"

He jerked, then glanced up — and there was Ratchet, a drink in either hand, looking far too serious for his own good. Drift coughed. "Yeah — sit with me. _Please_."

Ratchet obliged, and slid a glass across the table. "Wasn't sure if you'd be here. Once upon a time, I was under the impression that being the third-in-command, you'd have your hands full. That doesn't seem to be the case."

Drift snorted. " _Rodimus_ doesn't even have his hands full. Honestly, I think Magnus does all the work." He downed the rest of his first drink, pushed the empty glass aside, then nodded to Ratchet. "And you? Another breather from the medibay?"

"Uh-huh."

"— and your first order of business was to look for me?" Drift felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, and he wasn't so sure it was the engex's doing. "I must say, I'm rather flattered."

"Hmm. Well, a moment ago, you looked downright miserable."

Drift nearly choked. "Who, me? When? Just now?"

"You looked like you'd just been hit by Brainstorm's _melancholy gun_."

"He _has_ one of those?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Ratchet took a long drink, then asked, quite bluntly, "What's on your mind, kid?"

Drift vented a sigh. There was no sense in avoiding the topic now — not when the chief medical officer was seated across the table from him, asking questions and demanding answers. He took a sip of engex, then, "Lots of things. The crew, the quest, what happened at Delphi, whatever it is that's happening back home." Drift glanced up from his glass, optics locking with Ratchet's. "You."

Ratchet seemed entirely unfazed. He leaned forward over their table — close enough for Drift to feel the charge of his electromagnetic field — and placed a hand over Drift's. "I hope it's not me that's making you feel miserable."

"Er — no. Far from it." The third-in-command tried not to flinch at the sudden contact; Ratchet's hand was warm, just like Drift remembered back at Delphi.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Well —" Perhaps it was simply Drift's imagination at play, but Ratchet's voice sounded lower, huskier, and the third-in-command felt his plating warm. Oh, he wanted to talk, yes, but there were other things he wanted to do, too — dirty things, _impure_ things. With a very soft click, Drift's cooling fans switched on. He flashed Ratchet a sheepish grin, took a gulp of engex, then murmured, "I'm more impulsive than that, Doc. Why talk when I can — _do?_ " With those words, Drift twined his fingers with Ratchet's, black digits slowly sliding against blue.

Ratchet _smirked_. The medic didn't smile often, and when he did, it was _momentous_. He rubbed a thumb over Drift's palm, then said, "Well, kid, finish that drink of yours, and we'll see what we can do about that."

* * *

Drift clung to Ratchet, the charge of the engex coursing through his already overheated systems. It occurred to him that he didn't even know where the chief medical officer's habsuite was — and now, in his slightly-inebriated state, he wasn't so sure he'd remember. But it didn't matter: after a painfully long ride on the lift that nearly stifled Drift with sexual tension, Ratchet was practically dragging him through the passageways of the _Lost Light_.

Drift was not about to protest.

They arrived at the door to the medic's habsuite, Ratchet punching in the entry code without his usual measured precision — and when the entrance did slide away, Drift felt himself all but shoved inside. The door whisked shut behind them, cutting off the glow from the corridor, and save for the starlight filtering in from outside, they were immersed in near-darkness. Drift reset his optics, twice, and then Ratchet's hands were on him, moving up his arms, over his shoulders, down his breastplate.

"You coherent, kid?"

Drift pressed himself against Ratchet, into that inviting warmth, and he nodded against the medic's shoulder. "I think so. Yeah."

" _I think so_ is a lot different than _yes_ ," Ratchet chided, hands still moving over Drift's body, digits tracing seams and following the leading edges of smooth armor. "I'll ask again. Are you sober?"

Again, Drift nodded. He was pretty _sure_ he was, anyway. It was hard to be entirely coherent when talented hands were dancing over his frame, touching all the right spots, setting his sensory network afire with warm, wonderful feeling. And what did it matter? Right now, lucid or not, he wanted this. "I'm sober enough," Drift murmured, moving his own hands at last, dragging them down Ratchet's spinal strut. "Are _you?_ "

"It takes a lot more than a glass of engex to get me charged," Ratchet grumbled, digits now sweeping over Drift's lithe waist. "Alright, kid. Tell me what you want."

"You." Without hesitation, the word jumped from the third-in-command's mouth. "Your — your hands. Please."

Ratchet's smile was barely discernable in the darkness, but it was there — and Drift could sense the hum of the medic's electromagnetic field, equally amused and aroused, pulsing against his own. "Very well."

Drift was pushed backward, stumbling over his feet until he felt his aft bump against the edge of a recharge slab. He unclipped the sheathed swords at his waist, letting them clatter to the floor, then unlatched the Great Sword from his back, leaning it far more carefully against the wall. "Gonna make this a little easier for you, Ratch. Don't want any — any sharp edges." Weapons removed, Drift settled onto the recharge slab, legs splayed, cooling fans running a step higher. "Come on."

Ratchet hesitated; for a moment he seemed to simply stare at Drift, taking in the sight of his reclined body, and the way the starlight gleamed and raced over that smooth, reflective armor. Ratchet coughed static, snapping himself out of his reverie, and then he descended upon the third-in-command, hands sliding across heated plating.

Words had no function.

Drift arched into the touch, soft noises escaping his vocalizer as digits roamed down his waist, over his hips, his thighs. Ratchet pressed in closer, chest scraping against Drift's, fingers dipping into pelvic armor — warm, dexterous, gentle. Offlining his optics, the third-in-command bared his port, already wet with arousal, then hissed as a digit slipped inside. Another joined it, and together those fingers slid in and out, spreading against the sensitive lining of Drift's port, brushing against every sensory node they could reach. He bucked against Ratchet's hand, grip tightening on the medic's shoulders, internal walls gripping those talented digits almost as tightly.

Above Drift, Ratchet grunted, then pressed a third finger into the hot, dripping port. The digits curled against the inner workings — massaging, thrusting, stroking. "You feel wonderful on the inside, kid."

Drift couldn't answer — it felt divine, like a gift from Primus himself, and he bucked against Ratchet, harder, seeing static every time those forged fingers hit him _just so_. It was embarrassing, but at this rate, he wouldn't last much longer, not with the way the chief medical officer worked his digits in and out of his port. Drift felt Ratchet's other hand drag down his breastplate, over his ribstruts, coming to rest over his pelvic armor — and without any further prompting, interface paneling slid aside, Drift's spike jutting between them. Warm fingers wrapped around the shaft, pumping, thumb caressing the head, and Drift howled, optics onlining, overbright.

"Medic hands," Ratchet growled, his pace quickening, "are irreplaceable. They're just as dexterous as they are _sensitive_." Drift heard the other's fans kick up a notch, felt the rumble of Ratchet's engine reverberate through his frame, and he realized that _Ratchet was getting off on this just as much as he was._ "You feel so good."

With those words, Drift felt his servomotors lock, felt his vents hitch and his spark pulse, felt his fingers _dig_ into Ratchet's back. The overload hit him hard, port walls clamping down on the still-thrusting digits, hot transfluid jetting from his spike, striking the bulky frame above. Ratchet moaned, and through his overload-induced daze, Drift felt the medic's electromagnetic field give a violent _throb_.

A split-second later, Ratchet's mouth was on Drift's, kissing him fervently, and it was a level of intimacy that Drift was entirely unfamiliar with and —

— it was amazing.

Drift kissed back, desperately, legs wrapping around Ratchet's waist, fans running high. It was messy and wet and wonderful, a meeting of glossae and dentae, unrefined and hungry. At last Ratchet pulled away, lips parted, vents heaving, optics dim. "Kid —"

As another spasm rocked through Drift's frame, he frowned. He _knew_ that tone of voice — it was worried, admonishing. The third-in-command ran a hand over Ratchet's back, nuzzled his face against the medic's neck. "Yeah?"

"Earlier," Ratchet murmured, "at the bar. You're not happy, are you?"

Drift groaned. "You have to ask about that _now_ , of all times?"

"It's my job to take care of you."

The third-in-command released Ratchet's back, then eased himself up on his elbows. "I can hardly believe you tolerate me."

Ratchet snorted. "Why's that?"

"I just — my history, Ratch. The chance I had — that I squandered. The things I've done. I never _will_ be entirely happy. I know I'll never be at peace with myself."

"Then how about this, kid: can you be at peace with the _here_ and the _now?_ You should be. It sounds like the kind of _new-age_ slag you're into."

"I — I might be able to manage that," Drift admitted.

Silence descended upon them, and this time it was a comfortable silence. The habsuite was dark and quiet and secure, illuminated only by the glow of their optics and the starlight of outer space. Ratchet lifted a hand, digits still sticky with cooling transfluid, and ran his thumb over one of Drift's helm finials. Finally, "I hope you can, for your sake."

"Yeah," Drift said, managing a weak smile. More silence, growing ever deeper as their cooling fans began to slow. Then, "Ratchet?"

"Hm?"

"I'm glad — so glad — that I got you your hands back."

"Me too, kid. Me — too."

* * *

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :B


End file.
